One thing I've always wanted to do, and somehow never managed, is attend a TV recording at BBC Television Centre. With a closure deadline approaching fast (two weeks and counting) I realised I had to act quickly. So I booked tickets to watch the filming of BBC4's first ever sitcom, the last episode of which was recorded last night. It was a fascinating evening - illuminating and historic, hilarious and sad. And what's more, the experience was more like watching five programmes, not just one.
Programme 1: Up The Women Up The Women is a Suffragette sitcom, which may sound unlikely, but then this is for BBC4. It's been written by (and stars) Jessica Hynes, who you might know as the PR woman from Twenty Twelve, or maybe as her out of Spaced. The year is 1910 and the location is an Oxfordshire church hall, home to the ladies of The Banbury Intricate Craft Circle. This group of well-meaning women, and the odd hanger-on male, are attempting to advance the cause of universal suffrage through the making of jam and the occasional Post Office protest. The script had a certain historical subtext, but also plenty of laughs of the kind your aunt could safely watch. Included in the line-up were Rebecca Front and that stuck-up receptionist from Hotel Babylon, plus a guest appearance by the grand dame of BBC comedy herself, Ms Sandi Toksvig. Sandwiched between us and them were the dozens of crew who we saw but you won't - the cameramen, the boom operators, the sound engineers, the prop master, the dressers, the make up artists, the runners, and everyone else who won't have a job here next month. Up The Women is a Baby Cow production and will be lots of fun, whenever it finally makes it onto our screens, and you might even hear me laughing at an inopportune moment.
Programme 2: It'll Be Alright On The Night
Unlike a stage performance, where you have to get the lines right first time, on TV you're allowed to stumble. That's partly because you can, but also because you haven't had long to learn the script (in this case group rehearsals had been going on for only two days). So every now and then, just when the acting was otherwise storming along, somebody forgot their next line or tripped up over their words or burst into fits of giggles. That happened dozens of times last night, and suddenly you switched from watching a proper drama to a Saturday night blooper show. Sometimes the actor just stared plaintively at the floor manager in a mouth-gawping way, while at other times there were streams of swear words that Dennis Norden would have needed to bleep out. Last night's selection of verbal and physical mishaps would never make a highlights show, but they were hilarious in context.
Programme 3: Whose Line Is It Anyway
When the recording stumbled, either through amnesia or technical mishap, the gap was often filled with a little unscripted banter. These are comic actors, so witty improvisation is the very least you should expect. Timely putdowns, off-the-cuff remarks and ad lib badinage were de rigueur, especially from Sandi. Her guest star role kept her backstage for most of the recording, but when she finally emerged her sharp (but tired) tongue fired as if she were hosting The News Quiz. On one occasion the red-faced floor manager got chatted up, on another Jessica grabbed the microphone to say hello to her son in the audience. The funniest interjection of all was the entire cast slipping into an anachronistic a capella All The Single Ladies, although I suspect that one was planned, because you don't all mass-Beyonce by accident.
Programme 4: The Comedians
You may not remember ITV's tired stand-up show from the 1970s, but that always felt like it was full of warm-up men. Our warm-up man wasn't the finest example of his genre, managing to peak early and then awkwardly fade away. He didn't seem to have many actual jokes, preferring instead to banter with the audience in a semi-victimisation way. He found one member of the audience who needed to get a coach home afterwards to Norwich, and milked that situation almost to death. He next picked accidentally on a recovering alcoholic, before proceeding to delve into his predicament rather awkwardly. He didn't win us over at all, to be frank, and gradually his attempts at interaction reduced in frequency. An hour and a half later he'd resorted to raiding backstage for food to pass round the audience, which is no way to keep a long-term crowd entertained. It was fortunate then that Jessica's script kept us laughing, because the warm-up man blew cold.
Programme 5: Up The Women (repeat)
The main thing they don't tell you before you arrive, but which in retrospect is obvious, is that you're going to have to watch the entire show more than once. Partly that's because of forgotten lines, but mostly it's for technical reasons, like when someone's head blocks someone else's or to ensure that the producer has a choice when splicing scenes together. First time through you laugh, because the joke or the funny hat is unexpected. Second time through you have to laugh too, otherwise the audience reaction sounds all wrong, and third and fourth too if necessary. That wasn't too hard to manage, although there are now certain lines I think I can remember off by heart (even if the actress speaking them at the time apparently couldn't). These gaps also allowed the BBC's crack make-up team to rush in and spray down a flapping forelock, or the special effects team to perform emergency surgery on a trifle, using squirty cream so that it'd looked once more as if nobody had scooped out a bowlful already. And it was this repetition which meant that a half hour sitcom stretched out to almost three hours in the studio, which is a long time if you're sat squashed in a seat, or sweating under full make-up in a crinoline. Indeed when we finally filed out approaching half past ten, TVC's final BBC1 news broadcast was signing off somewhere across the courtyard.
It'll be a damned shame to see this great old building closed and redeveloped, even if the decision probably does make perfect sense on a balance sheet. Television Centre gets a big Light Entertainment send-off on BBC4 on Friday, recording this evening, if you're lucky enough to have tickets. And there's one more sitcom to go, a pilot for Reeves and Mortimer on Friday afternoon, for which tickets are somehow still available. It's OK, Studios 1-3 will reopen at the end of next year, in a more transparently independent way, before being surrounded later by flats, restaurants and a hotel. But I'm delighted I got inside to watch a recording at the proper home of BBC TV before the curtain falls, and enjoyed a memorable night out at the best free theatre in town.
"Would you like to come with me and visit a village so small that you will tower above the houses? Would you like to know what it would be like if you visited Fairyland, and felt like a giant, because everything was so tiny, and the people hardly came up to your ankles? Well, I live quite near to a little village like this - it is so close that I can see it from my bedroom window. Shall I take you there? It's a real village, called Bekonscot, and it is in the town of Beaconsfield. Are you ready to come with me? Let's go, then." (The Enchanted Village, Enid Blyton, 1951)
Generations of children have enjoyed a visit to Bekonscot model village since it opened to the public in 1929. The Queen came aged seven, back when she was merely Princess Elizabeth, whereas I think I first visited aged six. I remember being amazed by the little houses, and the little people, and of course the little railways. I also remember being taken to task by my infant school teacher when I wrote about my weekend visit to "Beconscot" on Monday morning. She said I'd spelt the name wrong, and I insisted I absolutely hadn't, in that way precocious six year-olds do. I've now recovered from the social trauma of that encounter, just about, so I thought it was time I went back as an adult and enjoyed Bekonscot again.
The village entrance lies a short walk from the station, up an unassuming avenue of whopper-priced commuter homes. Bekonscot was built in the back garden of Mr Roland Callingham, a London accountant with a penchant for model railways. When his wife grew tired of the trains he rebuilt his layout outdoors, added some model houses for good measure, then added a pier to his swimming pool. The model village grew inexorably from that point on, more a labour of love than an accurate representation of reality. Roland's friends loved it, and encouraged him to open the place up, and the general public duly flocked in. Bekonscot thrived and grew, but was soon hemmed in by surrounding back gardens and remains one and a half acres in size. It's now run by a charitable trust, who've rolled back certain 'modern' amendments so that everything now reflects a bygone Thirties England. Are you ready to come with me? Let's go, then.
Ah yes, the place looked very much as I remembered aged six, but much smaller. A mini-landscape of diminutive settlements spread out before me, including a windmill on a hill and a lake that used to be Roland's swimming pool. Mostly giant-free, because I'd thought to arrive early in the day before the day's rush arrived. And all very green, courtesy of some immaculate lawn and well-trimmed shrubs. A sprinkling of snowdrops and crocuses brightened the scene - it already feels like spring is here at Bekonscot. First up beside the entrance is Chessnade Zoo, including a now-out-of favour chimp's tea party plus a scale model of Lubetkin's penguin pool. Close by are a castle, a manor house and several rural cottages, plus umpteen roughly-painted little people engaged in everyday activities. The trick is to stop and look closely, not stomp around in 15 minutes flat, else you'll miss all the finer detail.
Bekonscot Town is the original heart of the model, with a warren of tiny streets set alongside the main square. It used to be possible to walk along all the back alleys, but the narrowest are now sealed off to prevent damage. Pause awhile to read and enjoy the punning shop names. The baker is Ivan Huven, the shoe shop is Evan Leigh Soles, and the newsagents is Daley Read. Not everything's fictional - the town boasts Britain's smallest Marks & Spencers, and the furniture removal company is Beaconsfield's own. And there are railways, seemingly everywhere, ducking beneath the footpaths and running round the lakeside. Every minute or so a model train goes by, then rumbles out of sight round a corner or into a tunnel. Small boys are transfixed by the display, and one much larger boy has the job of sitting in the full-sized signal box controlling them all.
Follow the arrows round to enjoy a fairground, an airfield and a circus. One thatched cottage in the central hamlet has a habit of catching fire, with smoke billowing from its roof and the fire brigade in attendance. A tram rattles along the lakeside, while a very successful cablecar ferries passengers down from the scout camp to the canal basin for a ha'penny fare. The best view of the site is from a raised walkway on the far side near the tearooms, so make sure you nip up there at least once. Almost every kind of building is reproduced here - a school, a country house hotel, even Ascot racecourse. There's even a functioning colliery... or at least a series of conveyor belts to shift tiny chunks of coal, overlooked by a series of northern-style stone terraces. And yes, that is indeed a reproduction of the Sydney Harbour Bridge, because Bekonscot is nothing if not a unashamed mishmash.
And then the school parties arrived, streaming in from the picnic area. I should have realised that visiting midweek wouldn't be quiet, and soon it was anything but. Bekonscot is a particular favourite for infant class trips, wandering round in small groups led by a parent in a hi-vis tabard. Some had worksheets to fill in ("I've found the church, here it is"), others got to choose which small building they'd like to have their photo taken in front of. Most of the other visitors were families with small children, indeed there were no other single middle-aged men wandering around feeling somewhat conspicuous. But much braver was the group of teenage girls who'd come to model fashionwear for a school project. They hovered suspiciously, then whipped off their onesies to stand shivering beside a variety of buildings - models in a model village, very clever.
Other things to do include riding on a miniature railway, safely tucked round the back so as not to spoil the main illusion. You can peer in at the workshops where all these models are created and repaired - it's a massive job keeping the place in good shape. The gift shop is housed inside a railway carriage and is an Aladdin's Cave of kid-friendly trinkets. Adults should hunt down a copy of the official guide book, which is poorly promoted, but which at £1.50 is quite the best value guide book I've ever come across. If you have time, wander a mile down the road (past the station) to Beaconsfield Old Town, some of whose quainter buildings are reproduced in the model village. But don't pop round to Enid Blyton's old house. She really did live on the other side of the lane for 30 years, in a mock Tudor mansion called Green Hedges, but after her death the land was sold off and a cul-de-sac of unmemorable homes erected instead. Green Hedges survives only as a one-twelfth scale model at Bekonscot - the Enchanted Village.
There are a lot of escalators on the Central line. They weren't there when it opened, there were stairs and lifts. But now there are almost twenty stations with diagonal-shifting people-movers. And some of them are record-breaking.
Greenford Greenford is well known for having the only escalator on the Underground that you ride up from the ticket hall to reach the platforms. The Central line runs through on a viaduct, just high enough above street level that having to take the stairs would be a pain. The escalator is 30 foot high, that's 9.14m in metric. And there's only one. The down escalator was converted to a staircase a while back, making two hard ways down and only one easy way up. Greenford station was scheduled to be step-free by now, but funding issues caused TfL to pull the plug in 2009 when work on a lift was only part-completed. Preparatory cable and drainage work remains, but only after £2.9m had been spent preparing a lift shaft that'll never be used. It would have been the Central line's only step-free station west of Stratford, but there's Mayoral priorities for you. Instead there's just the one escalator, rolling ever upwards, to reach the platforms.
Even more special, it's a wooden escalator. You don't get these anywhere else on the tube, not any more. Escalators with timber surfaces were phased out after the King's Cross fire for being a combustible risk, but Greenford'shas survived because it's not underground. It's quite evocative going for a ride, for those of us who remember these wooden workhorses all across the network. Chunky treads ascend, all threaded together, with convenient grooves into which to drop a scrunched up ticket or a cigarette paper. You suspect it wouldn't be quite so dangerous to catch a stray shoelace here as it would be on a modern metal chewer, but best not stop to find out. Once at the top it's almost tempting to walk back down the stairs, turn round and glide back up for another go. But best not. The platforms up here are fascinating too. Crammed between the two Central line platforms is a single-track FGW terminus, from which you can ride (occasionally) on one of the least used rail lines in London. I will do that one day and write about it, honest.
Chancery Lane Chancery Lane is well known for having the shortest escalator on the Underground. There are some pretty short escalators elsewhere, like a 6.46m climber at Canning Town, and a 6.31m riser at Heathrow 123, and three 5.60m at West Ham. But Chancery Lane's escalator is piddly, a mere 4.57m, that's fifteen feet in old money. If you choose to take the stairs instead, and you can because a staircase runs up the middle between the pair of escalators, there are only 25 steps. Twenty-five steps is nothing, unless you're elderly, or have a pushchair or a suitcase, in which case whoever installed this mini people-mover is a god. However record-breakingly short it is.
If you're thinking hang on, aren't the escalators at Chancery Lane quite long, that's because there are two sets. One rolls down from the ticket hall, and that's 50 foot long, which is proper big. That takes you down as far as the landing alongside the eastbound platform, which is where half the station's passengers need to go. But a peculiarity of the Central line means the westbound platform is stacked underneath the eastbound, hence the need for the tiny escalator to take everyone else a little further down. Even more peculiarly, the situation one stop down the line at St Paul's is reversed. There the eastbound platform sits underneath the westbound, don't ask me how, but somehow the tunnels swap elevations somewhere under Holborn Viaduct. But the lower escalator at St Paul's is eighteen foot high, that's 92cm more than at Chancery Lane, so Chancery Lane takes the crown.
Stratford
Except Chancery Lane doesn't have the shortest escalator on the Underground any more. That honour belongs to Stratford station, again on the Central line, as of September 2010. That's when platform 3a opened, to ease congestion before the Olympic by allowing doors to open on both sides on westbound trains. It also made it possible to access the central line direct from the main ticket hall, via an existing escalator. And that was a very short escalator, at only 4.1m, which is half a metre less than at Chancery Lane. You have to be fairly lazy to want to ride this one instead of walk up the staircase alongside, but people are lazy, and the escalator thrives.
And Greenford no longer has the only escalator on the Underground that you ride up to reach the platforms. Stratford has one too, the same escalator that trounced Chancery Lane in the shortness stakes. What a shame it's such a dullard. Stratford's record-breaker isn't even a proper Underground installation, more an incidental people-mover in the general vicinity of a shopping centre. But the Central Line still punches above its weight in the interesting escalator department. Why not ride one today?
Escalators shorter than 6m 4.1m Stratford: Ticket hall up to Central 4.57m Chancery Lane: Westbound up to eastbound 5.12m Notting Hill Gate: Eastbound up to westbound 5.15m Tottenham Court Road: Up from Northern 5.49m St Paul's: Eastbound up to westbound 5.60m West Ham: Up from Jubilee 5.64m King's Cross: Northern up to Piccadilly 5.76m West Ham: Up from ticket hall 5.88m Canning Town: Jubilee up to DLR 5.99m Westminster: Up from District
diet update: It's five years this week since my doctor jabbed me in the arm, crunched some numbers and told me that my cholesterol levels were too high. He gave me a badly photocopied sheet donated by a margarine company and sent me away to see what changes I could wreak in two months flat. I embarked upon a puritanical low-fat diet, cutting out excess stodge and living off only permitted foodstuffs. No crisps, no pie, no pizza, no chocolate, but plenty of oily fish and un-sauced chicken. It was grim, but blimey it worked.
By mid-May I'd lost a whole stone and my cholesterol was down by a third. My doctor was delighted by the latter (and decided he didn't need to prescribe me tablets for the rest of my life), whereas I was rather chuffed by the former (and the fact I'd dropped an entire waist size). My two month crash diet over, I took a reality check and reverted to a semi-sensible food intake. Cheese sometimes not never, salmon usually twice a week, biscuits thankyou, porridge most mornings, chocolate yeah why the hell not. Realistic, but not rigid. And I carried on weighing myself to see what happened.
March 2008
X stone 7
March 2009
(X-2) stone 12
March 2010
(X-2) stone 10
March 2011
(X-2) stone 8
March 2012
(X-2) stone 10
March 2013
(X-2) stone 11
After a year I'd lost almost two stone, which was ace, and meant I now slipped into smaller trousers. So I decided to put the diet on hold. I didn't want to waste away altogether, and I was tired of porridge, and I fancied pie sometimes. So I returned to eating what I wanted, within reason, but without reverting to previous gullet-stuffing practices. And something far more impressive happened. I didn't put the weight back on again.
My weight's gone up and down over the last four years, sure, you'd expect that. It tends to go up in the winter and down in the summer, which I attribute to long nights in and active days out. But it fluctuates within a fairly tight half-stone band, always bobbing back to approximately the same level, and that's good news for me health-wise. Part of this is down to sensible-ish eating, like not buying mid-morning snacks at work, and not having double helpings of pie. But more important, I reckon, is being in the correct mindset each day for keeping excess weight off. And that's where weighing myself comes in.
Sat 9th
more
Sun 10th
less
Mon 11th
more
Tue 12th
same
Wed 13th
more
Thu 14th
less
Fri 15th
more
The dg weight stabilisation diet is based on weighing yourself every day. That's every single day, at roughly the same time, and then making a note of the result. It won't surprise you to hear that I have a spreadsheet that runs to 1830 lines of daily weight data, plus graphs, but you don't need to go that far to make this work. All that's important is to know whether you weigh more than yesterday, the same as yesterday, or less than yesterday, and adapt your behaviour accordingly.
If you weigh more than yesterday: This is a warning sign. A single day's weight gain is nothing serious, indeed it's probably insignificant. But if you carry on this way you'll end up putting on weight, so take steps today not to. Today there'll be occasions when you have the option to eat something extra, something nice but unnecessary, so turn that down. Choose a jacket potato rather than chips, have an apple rather than a bag of crisps, leave the ice cream in the fridge, that sort of thing. No need to be strict about it, no need to turn down sensible opportunities, no need to cut back on everything. But approach the the next 24 hours with the mindset of "probably not, thanks", and you should avoid making too many potentially bad choices.
If you weigh the same as yesterday: This is probably good news. Indeed, if you could guarantee that you'd always weigh the same today as you did yesterday then there'd be no need to diet any more. Carry on as normal and eat sensibly, and everything should be fine. That's unless you're at the top of your ideal weight band, in which case maybe it's time to ease off slightly and nudge back down a bit.
If you weigh less than yesterday: Well done, you've actually lost weight. Again a one day loss is probably insignificant, but let's pretend it isn't and reward this decrease with a treat or two. Today there'll be occasions when you have the option to eat something extra, something nice but unnecessary, so this time say yes. Slice your cheese a little thicker, add an extra roast potato, gobble an entire bar of chocolate, that sort of thing. No need to be excessive, no need to throw away all your principles, no need to binge. But approach the the next 24 hours with the mindset of "yeah go on, why not", and enjoy a little extra freedom.
That's my dietary philosophy. Essentially it's self-correcting feedback, eating a little less if I weigh more, and eating a little more if I weigh less. I know it's stupid because these changes in weight are almost always the result of random variation, not genuine movement. That extra pound gained or lost since yesterday is merely the equivalent in weight of one pizza, or one pint of beer, or two mugs of tea. Your precise weight depends very much on how much is in your stomach, or when you last emptied your bladder, and not on how much excess fat you're carrying round your waist.
I know I'm reading too much into insignificant fluctuations. I know that gaining or losing a pound signifies nothing other than anatomical background noise. But my approach to weight control works by assuming these trivialities are meaningful and adopting a mindset for the day accordingly. And it's worked. I've weighed pretty much the same since 2009, maintaining a weight that keeps me and my doctor happy without having to resort to lettuce. Daily feedback may not work for you, it's probably too geekily obsessive. But it's kept me in check for the last four years, and hopefully will continue to do so.
À Paris: le flâneur
Paris is the spiritual home of theflâneur - the stroller, the saunterer, the idler on urban streets. And I do a lot of that - I am often an essentially aimless pedestrian. So I allowed myself time to wander across the city, all the way from Rambuteau to Alma, to soak up a feel for the place as I walked. I probably overdid the touristy bits to be honest, but I did also make sure to branch off along quieter backstreets to become at one with the city. I don't claim to have matched Baudelaire for insight, but here are ten things I observed on my flâneuring.
• le Louvre: I didn't venture inside Paris's most famous art museum. There wasn't time, and teenage me had been inside previously, before they slapped La Gioconda behind protective glass. But I did enjoy the atmosphere outside in the central courtyard, where dozens rested awhile on the edge of the water feature around around the glassy pyramidal entrance. I even managed not to get in the way of the group taking wedding photos.
• Centre Pompidou: I didn't get in here either, again for lack of time. And I hadn't heard of the big name artist being showcased inside, a certain Eileen Grey. But that's the second time I've walked past and wondered what it's like to ride the external escalators across the front, so next time I must.
• le graffiti: One bit of supposed street art caught my eye, the words "Super Boris" scrawled on a wall opposite Père-Lachaise in bold red letters. Has our mayor been making waves here too, I wondered, or is the acclamation sprayed alongside perhaps a bitter wisecrack?
• la Rive Gauche: That's the left bank of theSeine, a more intimate embankment than the right, and a fine place for a stroll. If the fliptop cabinets are unlocked you might well be able to pick up an old book or artwork from one of the many rivermarket traders.
• le traffic: Paris's traffic is so quiet in places, and relentless in others. I quickly got the hang of using Paris's pedestrian crossings, watching for the faintly green man, but without the additional safety paraphernalia that London throws at you. But blimey, some of those crossings are wiiiii-ide, notably the Champs-Élysées, and (sheesh) especially the Place de la Concorde.
• le Jardin des Tuileries: Perhaps not gardens in the way you'd expect, because a lot of them are gravel, this remains a favourite place to promenade because of its central location. It'll look greener when the brown trunks burst into leaf, but also a lot fuller. For now, in early March, there are even spare chairs around the boating pond.
• le Pont des Arts: A peculiar tradition has grown up on one, maybe two of the footbridges across the Seine. Loved-up couples bring a padlock, or maybe buy one off a conveniently-placed street vendor, and scratch their names or write a message on the side. The keys are then thrown into the water and the "love lock" is attached to the side of the bridge, creating a memorable mass metal mosaic. Civil authorities frown on the practice, but they don't stop it, and the lock-in continues.
• la place de l'Alma: It used to be an ordinary embankment-side road junction, apart from having a golden flame in one corner commemorating France's gift of the Statue of Liberty to New York. And then Princess Diana's chauffeur drove into the underpass, and didn't drive out again, and the flame suddenly became a place of pilgrimage. Even 14 years on the base of the memorial is scattered with bouquets, photos and scribbled tribute elegies, and curious onlookers still gather to remember.
• l'horizon: Planning rules in Paris (mostly) forbid the erection of buildings above seven storeys, whick keeps the central skyline generally picturesque. Architects and developers haven't been allowed to infill with ugly blocky modern stuff, or more likely haven't needed to due to lack of wartime bombing. Whatever, the end result has a relative uniformity and character long abandoned here in London, and that's our loss.
• le manger: Paris is known for its food and drink, and a pavement cafe culture that was thriving in Saturday's relatively mild weather. But did I stop and sit down for a coffee or a pastry or a light meal? No chance. I did grab a crêpe fried on a roadside stall, which dripped lemony sugar all over my jacket and left me with well-sticky hands. But dining is for wimps when there's a city to be explored and only ten hours to do so, especially when you're here without a companion, so I passed. I returned to Gare du Nord with my stomach underfed but my soul nourished, and that was the point of going, to be Frank.
If you fancy making a one day trip to Paris, my advice is to take the first Eurostar out and the last Eurostar back. On Saturdays that means leaving St Pancras at 0618 and arriving back at 2118, whereas on weekdays there's an 0540 with a 2218 return. These are often the cheapest trains too. Looking ahead to the edge of the booking window, Saturday 6th July can currently be done for £99 return, while Friday 12th July is only £69. You do have to get up very early. But l'oiseau tôt attrape le ver.
À Paris: Père-Lachaise
It took several years for Père-Lachaise to become Paris's cemetery of choice. When it opened in 1804, on a hillside east of the city, it was thought to be too far out of town. Then they moved Molière in, or what was left of him, and before long anyone who was anyone wanted to be buried here. You have to have lived or worked in Paris to gain subterranean admittance, and these days there's a considerable waiting list. Enough celebrity bones are located here that the mayor issues a free map near each entrance so that tourists can go round grave spotting. Skim down the list, pick a philosopher or politician, then head off into the 44 acres of stone monuments in search of their last resting place. It's like being part of a giant game of Treasure Hunt. Everywhere there are tourists consulting their maps, and trying to work out where section 85 is, and whether it might be up that footpath off to the left, and OK so where's Marcel Proust? Usually you know when you're close because a cluster of people have beaten you to it, and are milling round Edith Piaf, or Frédéric Chopin, or whoever.
Two names bring folk here more than most. One is Oscar Wilde, who saw out his last years in Paris and died in the city, destitute, in 1900. Later his remains were moved to Père-Lachaise and reburied beneath a sleek plinth designed by Jacob Epstein, topped off by a flat winged angel. Until recently it was thought lucky to peck the stone with a kiss, but lipstick damage forced the authorities to erect a protective glass screen, and the end result now isn't quite so evocative. And the other famous grave is that of Jim Morrison, lead singer with the Doors, who died prematurely in 1971. The Mayor makes it especially difficult to find Jim's resting place because he's not listed on the paper map - the selection is far more worthy - although he is on the noticeboard map by each entrance so try that. Stalkers should head for section 6, in the southeastern corner of the cemetery, and look for the metal barriers incongruously sited off the main paths. You have to feel sorry for the unfortunate Parisians in graves and tombs immediately alongside, as visitors step around them, brush past them and leave puddles of mud around them, all so they can stand and stare at whatever bouquets and memorabilia have been draped over Jim recently. On Saturday that included a blue hoodie and a bottle of rum, as well as the obligatory moody staring photo.
Père-Lachaise is a magnificent cemetery. The hillside setting helps, with spring blossom now attempting to burst out across the gentle, occasionally somewhat steeper slopes. In some corners the paths swirl, in others they drive broad and straight. The tombs are generally tall like a telephone box with a family name carved across the entrance. A few of these are open to walk (slightly) inside, others have stained glass on their southern face which glints in the sunlight. Even when classically ornate, the overall effect is never as romantically over the top as you might find in, say, Highgate cemetery. But there's plenty of variety throughout the cemetery, and never a feeling of overgrown dereliction. In the upper sections expect more graves than tombs, some even fresh with 2013 inscriptions, and plenty of original mini-architecture inbetween. Ashes are still scattered in the Jardin de Souvenir along the top edge, and here too are some striking sculptures to commemorate the horrors of the Holocaust. To share your day with a million ex-Parisians, and the memory of many more, take a hillside stroll.
À Paris: Musee d'Orsay
Between 1900 and 1939, if you'd rolled into Paris by train from southwest France you'd have arrived at Gare d'Orsay. It was the first electrified urban rail terminal in the world, built in the Beaux Arts style on the banks of the Seine. Unfortunately when longer trains became the norm it proved too small, and impossible to extend, so long-distance traffic was diverted elsewhere. A brilliant idea struck the French government in the 1970s, to convert the old station into an art museum, the Musee d'Orsay, and François Mitterand got to open that in 1986. Arriving late in the afternoon meant that the queue to get inside wasn't fierce, so I braved the security frisk, paid up and went exploring. What a fantastic space. The central swathe at platform level is given over to a ramp dotted with sculptures, while to either side are linked galleries with walkways on top. Further galleries are hidden to left and right, many in the railway hotel that used to face the river. The original station clock ticks round, in golden splendour, above the main entrance. But finest of all is the arched roof, part glass, embedded with floral motifs laid out in regimented squares. When the building's already art, the paintings sing a little louder.
They're all here, and in such numbers you get a little blasé about seeing them. Gaugin, Corot, Manet, Cezanne, and that's just the first few rooms downstairs. There aren't that many insanely well known works, Paris has other art museums where those reside. But there's Vincent's starry night, and Monet's poppy field, and blimey if that isn't Whistler's mother. The very top floor is given over to the impressionists, that upstart bunch who startled the critics with an exhibition in 1874 and went on to be widely adored. These are the most memorable pieces, but I had a soft spot for the dotty neo-impressionists too. To balance things out the museum also finds space for galleries of furniture, a bit like the V&A but with chockloads more art nouveau. And every now and again you come across a giant clockface, or the name of a provincial destination carved into the ceiling, to remind you of the building's true history. I wonder what we could do with Fenchurch Street if we chucked the trains out - the people of Southend would surely never mind?
À Paris: le métro
Yes, obviously I travelled on the Metro while I was in Paris. It's hard not to, if you want to get around, given how densely packed the network is. They say you're never further than 500 metres from a Metro station in Paris, but then there are more than 300 of those, and the city proper is a fraction the size of Greater London. Into that space they've crammed 16lines, which isn't easy given the local soil, plus five Crossrail-type lines called the RER that don't stop so often. Yes, obviously I travelled on the Metro quite a lot while I was in Paris. You'd expect nothing less.
A typical station
Unlike the Underground, where very few stations look the same as one another, an awful lot of Metrostations have a fairly identical feel. Most of the Paris subway system was constructed by the cut and cover method, and almost precisely follows main roads. That means it's rarely very far down from the street to the platforms, which are generally arched white spaces with a broad tiled roof. Tunnels are usually double tracked, rather than the single tracks we're used to in London, so the platforms face each other across the void. They're also fairly sparse. A few seats, or maybe benches, are dotted along each wall, rarely the same pattern twice. Throw in a vending machine, maybe, and a series of posters - mostly for just-released films, it seems. As for next train indicators, station layout means there isn't much to obstruct them, certainly little in the way of microphones and dangling detritus. They're also very simple, announcing how many minutes it is until the next train arrives, and the train after that. When the countdown reaches zero the digits flash, and the train rumbles in.
What takes some getting used to is that trains run on the right (like the traffic above), not on the left (as in the UK), and more than once I ended up on one platform whereas I should have been on the other. That shouldn't have been possible if I'd have been following the signs properly. All lines are designated by number, and direction by the name of the station at the end of the line. That's tricky if you don't know Paris well - I had to keep consulting a map to check which terminus was appropriate. But otherwise the signage is pretty clear. There are usually separate tunnels/stairways for entering a platform and for exiting it. This keeps the circulation moving, and can lead to a warren of intertwined passageways in some of the more complex stations. But on the whole, if you can negotiate one metro station you can negotiate them all. The uniformity of the system smacks of being designed municipally at roughly the same time, unlike the Underground which started out as very distinct commercial enterprises. That gives London a more endearing hotchpotch of peculiarities, but Paris the edge in everything actually hanging together.
Some atypical stations
• Cité (line 4): Digging beneath the Seine proved very awkward for Paris's early tunnel builders, so lines tend not to cross it unless they have to. Cité is the only station on the Île de la Cité, that's the island where Notre Dame is built, so is one of the deepest stations on the network. There are lifts, which is unusual, or you can descend a three-flight staircase down into the void - reminiscent of the shaft at Wapping. The platforms are peculiar too, encased within an arch much higher than usual, and with ornate drooping lamps.
• Arts Et Métiers (line 11): The platforms have been done up to look like you're on a submarine, complete with portholes. Blimey. • Bastille (line 5): Things you don't expect to find on a station platform... the foundations of France's most notorious prison. But there they are on the southbound, the remains of the Bastille, jutting out from the wall. They look a bit like a stone sandwich, and are protected by a metal rail to prevent passengers using them as a bench, or worse.
• Franklin D. Roosevelt (line 9): Don't they have great names, some of these Metro stations? Riding through here feels like sliding into an electrical transformer, such is the effect of the glass 'coil' lights above the platform. And the font used for the station name has a very Fifties feel, almost Muscovite. You'd never get TfL showing such lettering variation across the network.
Some atypical lines
• Line 1: This is the oldest, and busiest line on the Metro, dating back to 1900. It's also got the most modern trains, converted from driver-controlled to fully-automated three months ago. Just like on the DLR you can sit right up at the front and watch the tracks and stations zooming towards you! Boris probably has his eye on this conversion - if it can work in Paris, why not use it to reduce the threat of industrial action in London?
• Lines 2 and 6: These two lines are roughly semi-circular, together creating a ring around the city. They're also unusual in that for much of their length they run above ground, along the central reservation of an orbital road, on a viaduct. A great way to see real Paris neighbourhoods up close, rather than only the commercial haunts in the centre.
• Line 4: London doesn't have the monopoly on engineering works. The southern end of this line was closed at the weekend, but that's because a brand new terminus station is opening at Montrouge at the end of the month. They extend and build more, those French.
• Line 14: The first new Metro line in 65 years, this opened about the same time as the Jubilee line extension. It has similar looking platform doors, but is entirely driverless, and the gaps between stations are a bit longer.
Line 3bis:la ligne la plus courte
Ever since I first saw a Paris metro map, this brief line has intrigued me. It's stuck out on the eastern edge of the city, linking two other lines. It goes nowhere special, and is only four stations long. It goes by the peculiar name of line 3bis, and (seriously?) it's less than a mile in length. And yet it has a regular service, trains every five minutes or so, such is the public spiritedness of Paris' transport board. So when I found myself in the area, courtesy of Oscar Wilde, I had to take a ride.
Gambetta station starts as a series of subways leading down from the roundabout outside the local town hall. I could tell I was in the almost-suburbs when a man at the top of the escalator thrust a double glazing leaflet into my hand like I was a proper Parisian. One passage leads to line 3, the other to line 3bis, the latter emerging above a dim tiled chamber. I can best describe it as Clapham North but on a sharper curve, ie a narrow island platform between two single tracks, and with no posters of any kind for decoration. This was the last line in Paris to get next train indicators, here announcing that I had only two minutes to wait at this curiously bleak outpost. In came the train, a bit shorter than most on the network, and less sophisticated too. These are the only carriages not to feature flip-up seats, because passenger levels never reach standing room only. Indeed there were only two of us in my carriage, this at the height of a Saturday afternoon, plus the driver clearly visible through the glass of the door ahead. He sounded the siren to warn that the doors were about to shut, then rang his bell and off we went. Go on, admit you'd like to hear what that sounded like. Here you go, this audioboo journey from one station to the next should satisfy your curiosity.
The two intermediate stations - Pelleport and Saint-Fargeau - exist solely to ensure that every part of Paris lies with 500m of the Metro. They're quite deep, accessed directly by passenger lifts open to the street above. I wish I'd had time to explore those too, but alas not. Instead we whizzed on along the line, picking up and dropping off almost nobody apart from a few residents who planned to make a connection. The terminus at Porte des Lilas arrived quickly, genuinely less than five minutes after we'd left Gambetta, as we pulled in alongside another service ready to head the other way. Honk. Our empty train then continued into the tunnels ahead... which conceal Paris's most unusual abandoned station. Another peculiarly short line (7bis) was due to link up with 3bis ahead, but the authorities changed their mind at the last minute and curtailed it in a loop. That left Haxo station unwanted inbetween, and not only did it never open, they never finished connecting it to the surface either. That might one day change, if plans to complete the link 100 years late ever come to fruition. In the meantime Haxo lies Aldwych-dead beneath the outskirts of town, and line 3bis shuttles back and forth mostly unnoticed.
À Paris: la tour Eiffel
When in Paris, the EiffelTower is a must-climb. Or it should be, assuming that a) the weather's decent and b) the queues aren't too long. I had luck on my side with the weather. Saturday was a fine spring day in Paris, the sky mostly cloudless and the temperature well into double figures (the UK not so, I understand, which means I picked to spend my birthday in precisely the right place). But the queues took a bit more planning. Last time I was here in 2005 I thought I'd turn up at 6pm because it might be quieter then, but the tower stays open until 11pm so I met lengthy resistance. This time I went for the early approach, heading straight from the Eurostar to the Trocadero, then walking down through the gardens and across the Seine. The €14 queue to take the lift up the tower was already rather long, but the €5 queue to take the stairs was only half an hour. Result, game on.
What they don't tell you, at the foot of the Pilier Sud, is that climbing to the deuxième étage is the equivalent of climbing a 43 storey building. That slowly dawns because the steps are numbered, every tenth with digits stencilled to one side, and these climb inexorably upwards. The first flight is curved, then repeatedly back and forth in staggered ascent, a narrow metal staircase threading between the pillar's ironwork. I don't always have the best head for heights but this was OK, so long as I remembered the metalwork's not spontaneously collapsed now for 125 years. Eventually the climb darkens as you reach the underside of the premier étage, and then you're out... into a bit of a dump. The central platform is being revamped to create a better visitor space, even a "hospitality destination", with reconstruction due to be completed later this year. In the meantime visitors are restricted to unfenced-off parts of the exterior, or the posh restaurant, or of course the obligatory gift shop within. And that's fine because it's the view you're up here for, and it's marvellous.
When you're ready, there are lots more steps to the deuxième étage. This was a slightly more unnerving climb, though it shouldn't have been, and I tried not to show my trepidation to the liftfuls rushing past. Past 500 steps, past 600, until the final riser read 669 (and no, I wasn't out of breath). Balconies run around the entire perimeter, on two storeys thanks to the need for double-decker lifts. You're open to the weather, which can be grim but was delightfully springlike on Saturday. Even better the safety grille has a grating wide enough to be entirely camera-friendly, and from the upper deck there's nothing in the way at all. Indeed the Eiffel Tower easily beats the Orbit in East London on lack of obstruction (and on price, height and view). To the west, on a nearby bridge, tiny Metro trains rumble across the Seine. To the southeast, in a formal green stripe, lie the gardens of the Parc du Champ de Mars. To the northeast, set high above therooftops of the inner city, sit the gleaming domes of Sacré-Cœur. And to the northwest are the Chaillot gardens, marked by the tower's noonday shadow, with the financial towers of La Defense rising on the horizon.
I was expecting it to be packed up here, but not so. Wherever you wanted to stand there was room, often plenty, this despite the presence of a large group from an English primary school (wearing red baseball caps for easy identification). Another reason for the space was that a significant number of the people up here were queueing. The lifts to the troisième étage are only small, so it takes a while to get on board, and then a while to escape back down again when you're ready. I was tempted to head up to the very top - there's a cash desk here where you pay the €5.50 extra (which is my top tip if you ever pay a visit). But I looked at the queues, and thought how much of my brief trip to Paris this would consume, and decided against. I've done the upper deck once before, back in 1980 on a French Exchange, and that memory'll have to do for now. This just left me 669 steps down, the descent not scary at all, this time stuck behind a party of lively deaf teenagers waving their hands. The queues looked much worse at this point, even for those who'd pre-booked their tickets. But I'd beaten the multitudes this time, and enjoyed a stunning Parisian panorama as a result. A birthday highlight, long to be remembered.
À Paris: le grand départ
It's a fairly bonkers thing to do, I'll admit. A day out in Paris, that's there and back again, cramming as much as possible into the hours inbetween. But when it's your birthday, hell why not? And Eurostar makes it possible, even convenient, to make a day trip, so long as you don't mind keeping unsociable hours. The first train out of St Pancras on a Saturday leaves just after 6am, and the last train back arrives just before 10pm. That leaves ten hours to explore the French capital, which is more than long enough to do a heck of a lot, so long as you don't restrict yourself too much. I last tried this stunt back in 2005, and crammed in tons, which I'd urge you to go back and read if you're interested. This time I didn't whizz around quite so très vite as then, and picked a trio of places to explore in a little more depth, as well as nipping about widely on the Metro inbetween.
Getting to St Pancras for 0545 requires dedication, or an overnight hotel room, or one of the very first tube trains of the day. Alas Bow Road's doors were still firmly bolted when I needed to depart, so I took the nightbus instead and shared the early part of my birthday with inebriated folk stuffing kebabs down their gullet. Whilst most were heading home, a select group of travellers descended on the check-in beneath St Pancras's platforms. I had a proper ticket, but most were attempting to gain entry by waving a home-printed sheet or a mobile phone QR code at the barriers. Then the metal detector shuffle, then smile for French passport control, and into the lounge where hundreds of pairs of bleary eyes were waiting. I wanted a newspaper but it was too early - WH Smith had only empty shelves. And I wanted a Metro pass for later but held off - it's apparently cheaper if you buy it aboard the Eurostar.
I settled into my window seat with a smile, then had to withdraw when a couple arrived waving tickets saying it was theirs. Damn, they were right, I'd misread one badly printed digit under inadequate illumination - either that or my eyesight's failing, and had chosen my 48th birthday to announce the fact. The train was packed with couples off to spend a day, or more likely the weekend, in la belle Paris. They had overnight bags and pink wheelie suitcases, and that look in their eyes which said "this is going to be très spécial." Meanwhile I had an empty seat next to me all the way, which was a result, and suggests the early train always has room for a last-minute booking.
After 20 minutes beneath the Channel we hurtled out into France, which was temporarily invisible thanks to something the deep recesses of my schoolboy brain reminded me was brouillard. Eventually the fog thinned and lifted, revealing arurallandscape that was somehow definitely not Kent. The hedgerows looked different, and the farmhouses, but it was the electricity pylons which were the true giveaway. Occasionally a town appeared, with unfamiliar takeaway drive-thrus and warehouses on its outskirts, but mostly the view was of ploughed fields, distant villages and the occasional water tower. That is until we pierced the edge of Paris, first les banlieues with their highrise flats, and finally the commercial mix of the metropolitan arrondisements. From St Pancras to Gare du Nord in two and a half hours flat, plus an extra hour for entering the Central European timezone, and it still wasn't 10am. I had the entire day ahead - best make the most of it.
Route 48: London Bridge - Walthamstow Location: London northeast Length of journey: 8 miles, 60 minutes
Another birthday, another numerically significant bus journey. Six years ago I took the 42 to Dulwich, five years ago the 43 to Barnet, four years ago the 44 to Tooting, three years ago the 45 to Clapham, two years ago the 46 to Farringdon and last year the 47 to Bellingham. So this year, obviously, I rode the 48 to Walthamstow. Who said middle-age wasn't exciting?
There is a certain sense of deja vu about the mid forties. My journey on the 43 also kicked off at London Bridge, and the 47 passed this way last year. So, to ensure a bit of variety, a sewer has collapsed and all buses are being diverted. The 48 (and a number of other routes) currently kick off from a makeshift bus stand on a long derelict site on Southwark Street. The first stop is outside the Hop Exchange, a massive building formerly used to trade brewery inputs, now a less exciting mishmash of brewery outputs. My bus pulls up in the shadow of the Shard, or it would have done had the sun been in the right place, and if thick cloud hadn't been in the way. I'm the only boarder, as befits an out-of-the-way location, so I grab the prime observation seat at the front of the top deck and hunker down until Walthamstow.
Beneath the railway viaduct, Borough Market's redevelopment looks unfamiliarly modern. Some of its clientèle join us on London Bridge, along with mainline passengers making their escape from south London. I'm joined up front by a loud businessman, rail ticket in hand, who blares into his phone as we cross the Thames. Every twentieth word is frigging, every tenth word alludes to excrement, as he explains to whoever that he's "working from home now" and is "gagging for it". I take the opportunity to stare at Tower Bridge and the Tower - the last decent view the 48 will afford - and we rumble into EC4.
Because it's a weekday afternoon the City is buzzing, and not the usual ghost town I see at weekends. Traders fill Leadenhall Market, bankers fill late-serving restaurants, and nobody fills the Pinnacle because its backers have run out of money. Outside Liverpool Street station the last of this morning's papers are being sold, and nobody in a suit seems keen to hop aboard our bus when we pull up. Since I passed this way on last year's bus I see, with some sadness, that what's left of Norton Folgate has been boarded up. Even the narrow caff at Savoy Quality Sandwiches has closed, as have its neighbouring ex-businesses alongside, ready for their joint transformation into open plan offices.
Things have looked pretty damned prosperous through the City, but the buildings get noticeably less shiny as we cross its northern boundary - the line where highrise becomes lowrise. We've entered pre-buzz Shoreditch, too early for the High Street to have come alive. The drapes outside a Lebanese pop-up flap forlornly in the wind, awaiting custom, and Boxpark looks quite dead, for now. At the big church we turn right into Hackney Road. The street is unexpectedly dotted with boutiques selling blingy handbags and glittery clutch purses, considerably more than the local population could possibly require. I looked at a flat down here when I first moved to London, a dingy garret round the back of a parade of non-bag-related shops, whereas now the street boasts boutique apartments amongst the mews and terraces. But hipsterdom only spreads so far. Meals at the Mecca Bingo are two for £5.99, and no pints have been pulled at the British Lion any time recently.
A long hike up Mare Street beckons. This broad highway is at the heart of Hackney, from where it crosses the canal to the civic square by the Empire. The bus lane is busy with red double deckers, leapfrogging one another from one stop to the next. I'm surprised to see a number 675 bus ahead, and even more surprised later when I discover that this school service is several miles off course. My new companions on the front seats are a red-haired mum wielding a bottle of Evian and her lively-looking daughter. My dream on these blogged bus journeys is to be joined by anecdote-worthy companions, but these two never live up to their initial promise and sit in relative silence all the way to E17.
Travelling north we avoid Hackney's main shopping street, passing instead the retail classic that is The Pet Shop (Doreen's). Banners hung from every lamppost remind Hackney's citizens that "Green sacks are coming", that's from 1st March, so it's old news by now. It takes an age to turn right at the Pembury Tavern, at a roundabout slowed by five-way traffic lights. Here old flats are becoming new flats in an attempt to attract gentrified incomers, but the local economic outlook is still dominated by pawnbrokers and Paddy Power. On Lower Clapton Road a discarded skirt and a pair of shoes lie rotting on top of a bus shelter. Clapton Pond, by contrast, is the prettiest thing we've passed in ages, its fountain bursting forth encircled by pigeons.
It's time to veer off at the Lea Bridge Roundabout and head for the river. The road ahead has a noticeable downward slope, which is what passes for topographically exciting in much of East London. Schools are starting to turn out, but the kids hereabouts stay resolutely on the pavement rather than overtaking our top deck. Likewise there's no interest from passengers at the Lea Valley Ice Centre nor the Lea Valley Riding Centre next up, two neighbouring stops on the marshes that beckon us into Waltham Forest. Lettering on the front of an old electricity substation reminds us that this used to be the Borough of Leyton, chiselled into a classical façade concealing a more ordinary brick building behind. And there on the right is the Hare and Hounds pub, from whose comfy benches millions heard me talking about the Olympics last summer (but if you weren't listening to the World Service at the time, bad luck).
On and on and on ploughs the Lea Bridge Road. Retail highlights include The Millionaire's Hair Salon, which I suspect is inaccurately named, and Dial-Halal, "the home of dial-a-chicken", which I hope is a butchery service. Our 48 keeps catching up with a 55 ahead, and I realise that I'm going to have to come back to this underwhelming street on my birthday bus journey in seven years time. And eight, because the 56 travels this way too, which doesn't feel like much to look forward to. But beyond the railway line I'm wowed by the Bakers Almshouses, a set of beautiful yellow brick residences arranged round three sides of a quadrangle, built 150 years ago for those in the bread trade fallen into poverty. They gave their name to the pub on the corner, which later gave its name to the crossroads and surrounding area - Bakers Arms. Alas that regenerated into a bookmakers in 2010, although with Percy Ingle nextdoor at least some vague connection to the past is maintained.
Nearly there now, there's just Hoe Street to negotiate. There's a lovely beehive dated 1915 carved above the Co-op, although they don't do groceries here any more, only something the marketing department call funeralcare. Most of the other businesses along here have a foreign flavour, indicative of an even greater change over the last century, indeed over a considerably shorter time than that. The Goose is a sign that we've finally reached Walthamstow proper, and at the bus stop outside the station the majority of passengers pour out. They might be here to admire the new canopy leading down into the ticket hall, but more likely they've worked out it's quicker to walk to the shops from here than wait interminably at the traffic lights ahead. We wait interminably at the traffic lights ahead, before pulling up into TfL's E17 pride and joy, Walthamstow bus station. You can catch a bus to almost anywhere from here, but only one bus direct to Central London, and that's back the way we came. I'll pass, thanks, and catch the tube.
One of the scariest things about being 48 is realising it's thirty years since your 18th birthday. I kicked off my 18th birthday with a celebratory bowl of Coco Pops, then opened some presents which included a Thompson Twins cassette and a Venus fly trap. At school we did periglacial features in double geography, and in the afternoon they let me win three games of table tennis because it was my birthday and not because of any residual talent. My Dad allowed me to drive home from school, because it was my driving test the following day (third time lucky). Then in the evening my extended family came round for a roast turkey dinner and a huge lemon meringue pie, which is dessert perfection in my opinion, before giving me the bumps on the front lawn. They don't make birthdays like that any more.
One of the other scariest things about being 48 is realising that in thirty years time you'll quite likely be dead. So I'm not thinking about that. I'm seizing the day, and I'm going abroad. I'm giving myself a treat by heading somewhere foreign and wandering around for several hours, and then coming home with a smile. I wanted to nip in before next year when my passport photo has to look like me again. And apparently it might even be sunny where I'm going, so that's a win. Although it does mean being awake at stupid o'clock this morning, which sounded like a good idea when I booked the tickets, but I'm not so sure now. Still, you only get to be 48 once. Carpe birthdiem.
One unusual feature of the Central line is the number of stations named after places elsewhere. Here's why and how.
Holland Park: This station is named after HollandPark, a green expanse that was formerly the grounds of Holland House, which used to be a grand Jacobean mansion until most of it was firebombed during the Blitz, and which had started out in 1604 as Cope Castle, but which was renamed Holland House in 1625 when it was inherited by the Earl of Holland’s wife, that's not Holland across the North Sea, that's Holland one of the three medieval subdivisions of Lincolnshire, the southeastern Part whose main towns are Boston and Spalding. Lancaster Gate: This station is named after an entrance to Kensington Gardens, an entrance which lies adjacent to the Italian Gardens, which were given as a gift by Prince Albert to his beloved Queen Victoria, one of whose titles was Duke of Lancaster, a dukedom first bestowed in 1351, and which survives as Duchy of Lancaster (a portfolio of land and assets held in trust for the sovereign), hence the gate alongside the gardens was named Lancaster Gate in the Queen's honour. Oxford Circus: This station is named after the junction between Oxford Street and Regent Street, the latter street created by John Nash for the Prince Regent in the 1820s, with Oxford Circus created as a roundabout on Oxford Street, which used to be called Tyburn Road because it led to the gallows at Tyburn, and was renamed in the late 18th century, not because the road goes to Oxford but because the surrounding fields were bought up by the Earl of Oxford, not one of the original earls dating back to 1142, but a dormant peerage revived for the statesman Robert Harley. Tottenham Court Road: This station is named after the road leading north to Tottenham Court, which was the manor-house of the Manor of Tottenham, first owned by William de Tottenhall during the reign of Henry III, later an Elizabethan mansion of three storeys with two wings which stood in 1½ acres within a moat, patched up several times over the succeeding centuries until it was eventually demolished in 1808, located not in Tottenham as you might expect, but on what is nowthe corner of Hampstead Road and Euston Road, opposite University College Hospital, roughly where the northern entrance to Euston Square tube station is, which might instead have been named Tottenham Court. Liverpool Street: This station is named after a minor street alongside the mainline station, a street named after Lord Liverpool, the UK's third longest-serving Prime Minister (1812-1827), whose father appears to have been awarded the title for no geographical reason whatsoever. Newbury Park: The station is named after an extensive interwar housingestate, itself named after Newbury, one of the 24 demesnes of Barking, a manorial division of land originally owned by Barking Abbey, back in the days when BarkingAbbey was really important, the name 'Newbury' being first recorded in 1321 and nothing at all to do with the town in Berkshire.
Programme 1: Up The Women
The village entrance lies a short walk from the station, up an unassuming avenue of whopper-priced commuter homes. Bekonscot was built in the back garden of Mr Roland Callingham, a London accountant with a penchant for model railways. When his wife grew tired of the trains he rebuilt his layout outdoors, added some model houses for good measure, then added a pier to his swimming pool. The model village grew inexorably from that point on, more a labour of love than an accurate representation of reality. Roland's friends loved it, and encouraged him to open the place up, and the general public duly flocked in. Bekonscot thrived and grew, but was soon hemmed in by surrounding back gardens and remains one and a half acres in size. It's now run by a charitable trust, who've rolled back certain 'modern' amendments so that everything now reflects a bygone Thirties England. Are you ready to come with me? Let's go, then.
Bekonscot Town is the original heart of the model, with a warren of tiny streets set alongside the main square. It used to be possible to walk along all the back alleys, but the narrowest are now sealed off to prevent damage. Pause awhile to read and enjoy the punning shop names. The baker is Ivan Huven, the shoe shop is Evan Leigh Soles, and the newsagents is Daley Read. Not everything's fictional - the town boasts Britain's smallest Marks & Spencers, and the furniture removal company is Beaconsfield's own. And there are railways, seemingly everywhere, ducking beneath the footpaths and running round the lakeside. Every minute or so a model train goes by, then rumbles out of sight round a corner or into a tunnel. Small boys are transfixed by the display, and one much larger boy has the job of sitting in the full-sized signal box controlling them all.
Other things to do include riding on a miniature railway, safely tucked round the back so as not to spoil the main illusion. You can peer in at the workshops where all these models are created and repaired - it's a massive job keeping the place in good shape. The gift shop is housed inside a railway carriage and is an Aladdin's Cave of kid-friendly trinkets. Adults should hunt down a copy of the official guide book, which is poorly promoted, but which at £1.50 is quite the best value guide book I've ever come across. If you have time, wander a mile down the road (past the station) to Beaconsfield Old Town, some of whose quainter buildings are reproduced in the model village. But don't pop round to Enid Blyton's old house. She really did live on the other side of the lane for 30 years, in a mock Tudor mansion called Green Hedges, but after her death the land was sold off and a cul-de-sac of unmemorable homes erected instead. Green Hedges survives only as a one-twelfth scale model at Bekonscot - the Enchanted Village.
Greenford
Chancery Lane
Stratford
• le Louvre: I didn't venture inside Paris's most famous art museum. There wasn't time, and teenage me had been inside previously, before they slapped La Gioconda behind protective glass. But I did enjoy the atmosphere outside in the central courtyard, where dozens rested awhile on the edge of the water feature around around the glassy pyramidal entrance. I even managed not to get in the way of the group taking wedding photos.
Two names bring folk here more than most. One is Oscar Wilde, who saw out his last years in Paris and died in the city, destitute, in 1900. Later his remains were moved to Père-Lachaise and reburied beneath a sleek plinth designed by Jacob Epstein, topped off by a flat winged angel. Until recently it was thought lucky to peck the stone with a kiss, but lipstick damage forced the authorities to erect a protective glass screen, and the end result now isn't quite so evocative. And the other famous grave is that of Jim Morrison, lead singer with the Doors, who died prematurely in 1971. The Mayor makes it especially difficult to find Jim's resting place because he's not listed on the paper map - the selection is far more worthy - although he is on the noticeboard map by each entrance so try that. Stalkers should head for section 6, in the southeastern corner of the cemetery, and look for the metal barriers incongruously sited off the main paths. You have to feel sorry for the unfortunate Parisians in graves and tombs immediately alongside, as visitors step around them, brush past them and leave puddles of mud around them, all so they can stand and stare at whatever bouquets and memorabilia have been draped over Jim recently. On Saturday that included a blue hoodie and a bottle of rum, as well as the obligatory moody staring photo.
A typical station
• Bastille (line 5): Things you don't expect to find on a station platform... the foundations of France's most notorious prison. But there they are on the southbound, the remains of the Bastille, jutting out from the wall. They look a bit like a stone sandwich, and are protected by a metal rail to prevent passengers using them as a bench, or worse.
Gambetta station starts as a series of subways leading down from the roundabout outside the local town hall. I could tell I was in the almost-suburbs when a man at the top of the escalator thrust a double glazing leaflet into my hand like I was a proper Parisian. One passage leads to line 3, the other to line 3bis, the latter emerging above a dim tiled chamber. I can best describe it as Clapham North but on a sharper curve, ie a narrow island platform between two single tracks, and with no posters of any kind for decoration. This was the last line in Paris to get next train indicators, here announcing that I had only two minutes to wait at this curiously bleak outpost. In came the train, a bit shorter than most on the network, and less sophisticated too. These are the only carriages not to feature flip-up seats, because passenger levels never reach standing room only. Indeed there were only two of us in my carriage, this at the height of a Saturday afternoon, plus the driver clearly visible through the glass of the door ahead. He sounded the siren to warn that the doors were about to shut, then rang his bell and off we went. Go on, admit you'd like to hear what that sounded like. Here you go, this audioboo journey from one station to the next should satisfy your curiosity.
À Paris: la tour Eiffel
When you're ready, there are lots more steps to the deuxième étage. This was a slightly more unnerving climb, though it shouldn't have been, and I tried not to show my trepidation to the liftfuls rushing past. Past 500 steps, past 600, until the final riser read 669 (and no, I wasn't out of breath). Balconies run around the entire perimeter, on two storeys thanks to the need for double-decker lifts. You're open to the weather, which can be grim but was delightfully springlike on Saturday. Even better the safety grille has a grating wide enough to be entirely camera-friendly, and from the upper deck there's nothing in the way at all. Indeed the Eiffel Tower easily beats the Orbit in East London on lack of obstruction (and on price, height and view). To the west, on a nearby bridge, tiny Metro trains rumble across the Seine. To the southeast, in a formal green stripe, lie the gardens of the Parc du Champ de Mars. To the northeast, set high above the rooftops of the inner city, sit the gleaming domes of Sacré-Cœur. And to the northwest are the Chaillot gardens, marked by the tower's noonday shadow, with the financial towers of La Defense rising on the horizon.
Getting to St Pancras for 0545 requires dedication, or an overnight hotel room, or one of the very first tube trains of the day. Alas Bow Road's doors were still firmly bolted when I needed to depart, so I took the nightbus instead and shared the early part of my birthday with inebriated folk stuffing kebabs down their gullet. Whilst most were heading home, a select group of travellers descended on the check-in beneath St Pancras's platforms. I had a proper ticket, but most were attempting to gain entry by waving a home-printed sheet or a mobile phone QR code at the barriers. Then the metal detector shuffle, then smile for French passport control, and into the lounge where hundreds of pairs of bleary eyes were waiting. I wanted a newspaper but it was too early - WH Smith had only empty shelves. And I wanted a Metro pass for later but held off - it's apparently cheaper if you buy it aboard the Eurostar.
Route 48: London Bridge - Walthamstow
There is a certain sense of deja vu about the mid forties. My journey on the 43 also kicked off at London Bridge, and the 47 passed this way last year. So, to ensure a bit of variety, a sewer has collapsed and all buses are being diverted. The 48 (and a number of other routes) currently kick off from a makeshift bus stand on a long derelict site on Southwark Street. The first stop is outside the Hop Exchange, a massive building formerly used to trade brewery inputs, now a less exciting mishmash of brewery outputs. My bus pulls up in the shadow of the Shard, or it would have done had the sun been in the right place, and if thick cloud hadn't been in the way. I'm the only boarder, as befits an out-of-the-way location, so I grab the prime observation seat at the front of the top deck and hunker down until Walthamstow.
A long hike up Mare Street beckons. This broad highway is at the heart of Hackney, from where it crosses the canal to the civic square by the Empire. The bus lane is busy with red double deckers, leapfrogging one another from one stop to the next. I'm surprised to see a number 675 bus ahead, and even more surprised later when I discover that this school service is several miles off course. My new companions on the front seats are a red-haired mum wielding a bottle of Evian and her lively-looking daughter. My dream on these blogged bus journeys is to be joined by anecdote-worthy companions, but these two never live up to their initial promise and sit in relative silence all the way to E17.
On and on and on ploughs the Lea Bridge Road. Retail highlights include The Millionaire's Hair Salon, which I suspect is inaccurately named, and Dial-Halal, "the home of dial-a-chicken", which I hope is a butchery service. Our 48 keeps catching up with a 55 ahead, and I realise that I'm going to have to come back to this underwhelming street on my birthday bus journey in seven years time. And eight, because the 56 travels this way too, which doesn't feel like much to look forward to. But beyond the railway line I'm wowed by the Bakers Almshouses, a set of beautiful yellow brick residences arranged round three sides of a quadrangle, built 150 years ago for those in the bread trade fallen into poverty. They gave their name to the pub on the corner, which later gave its name to the crossroads and surrounding area - Bakers Arms. Alas that regenerated into a bookmakers in 2010, although with Percy Ingle nextdoor at least some vague connection to the past is maintained.
One of the scariest things about being 48 is realising it's thirty years since your 18th birthday. I kicked off my 18th birthday with a celebratory bowl of Coco Pops, then opened some presents which included a Thompson Twins cassette and a Venus fly trap. At school we did periglacial features in double geography, and in the afternoon they let me win three games of table tennis because it was my birthday and not because of any residual talent. My Dad allowed me to drive home from school, because it was my driving test the following day (third time lucky). Then in the evening my extended family came round for a roast turkey dinner and a huge lemon meringue pie, which is dessert perfection in my opinion, before giving me the bumps on the front lawn. They don't make birthdays like that any more.
